Carved in Bone bf-1 Read online

  “Excuse me?”

  “Bonds. That was that girl’s name. I disremember her first name. She was a looker, though, I ’member that real clear. Kindly high-spirited — sorta gal might need a little tamin’—but you could tell the ride would be worth gettin’ thowed off a time or two, if you know what I mean.”

  “You remember what happened to her?”

  “Just up and left. Run off, story I heard. Don’t know why. Wisht she hadn’t of — left a big hole in the scenery round here once she was gone.” The memory inspired more gum-grinding.

  I thanked him and headed back toward Art, who was waiting on the steps. A wheezy voice called after me. “Sheriff might remember her given name. Ought to, leastwise. She was his kin.”

  Tom Kitchings was cleaning a rifle when I flung open his door and stormed into his office. He looked up, startled at the intrusion, then startled at the expression on my face. “Easy there, Doc, you shouldn’t oughta startle a man holding a gun. What’s up? You come to bring me that skeleton?”

  “No, I come—came—to see why you’re lying to me about this case.”

  He laid the rifle down across the desk and looked up at me slowly. “Hold on a minute, Professor. Those are pretty strong words. You got something to back ’em up?” He looked over my shoulder at Art, who’d followed me into the office. “Who is this?”

  “This is Art Bohanan, a criminalist with KPD.”

  “What the hell is he doing in my county?”

  Art spoke up calmly. “Just sightseeing. Just along for the ride.”

  “Well, sightsee somewhere else. I hear there’s a big national park not far from here’s got some kickass scenery.”

  “Maybe we can swing by there on our way home,” said Art amiably.

  “Best get going, then.”

  I slapped the desktop with a force that surprised everyone, including myself. “Goddamnit, what’s her name, Sheriff? You know damn well who she is.”

  He reddened, glowering at me. “I haven’t finished checking the old files.”

  “You don’t have to check your files. Check your family bible. Last name Bonds. This skeleton is dangling from your own family tree. What happened, Sheriff — she disgraced the family, so she had to be disposed of?”

  Kitchings jumped to his feet. “Don’t you dare come in here and insult me and my family. Get the hell out of my office, the hell out of my county, and the hell out of my business.”

  “The hell I will. This a murder case, and I won’t let you sweep it under the rug just because you don’t like where it’s going all of a sudden.”

  The sheriff grabbed the rifle off the desk and began to swing it up. Instinctively I grabbed the barrel and wrestled for control. Suddenly the sheriff froze. I looked up to see Art Bohanan standing beside him, one hand clutching a fistful of hair, the other holding a pistol to Kitchings’s temple. “Okay, let’s everybody take a deep breath and calm down here,” said Art. “Sheriff, let go of that rifle.” He did. “Bill, set it over there by the door.” I did. “Okay, we’re gonna just head on back to Knoxville now,” Art continued. “We see anybody in the rearview mirror, and I’ll be on the radio like a duck on a June bug to the FBI, the TBI, and a couple undercover cops that would make your worst Cooke County badass look like a mama’s boy.”

  Kitchings was panting through clenched teeth. “You listen up, Doctor. I’m getting a warrant for the arrest of Jim O’Conner. I’m bringing him in on a charge of murder, and I’m sending Williams over to retrieve those remains as evidence.”

  I shook my head. “I’ll turn them over to the district attorney, if he subpoenas them, but I won’t turn them over to you.”

  “You’ll do whatever the man says,” came a voice behind me. I turned to see a younger, slimmer version of Tom Kitchings, wearing a deputy’s uniform and a brass bar that read “Orbin Kitchings, Chief Deputy.” He was sighting down the barrel of the sheriff’s rifle, which was pointed straight at my head. “Put your weapon down,” he said to Art. “And I do mean right now.” Art kept his pistol at the sheriff’s head. “Put it down, city boy, or I’ll by-god blow his brains out.”

  The room was so still you could hear a toothpick drop. Finally Art broke the silence. “You can’t do it, Deputy.”

  “The hell I can’t.”

  “You can pull the trigger, but you can’t shoot him,” Art said levelly. “The chamber’s empty. Sheriff was just cleaning that rifle. Might be some rounds in the magazine, but by the time you can lever one in, I’ll have two bullets in you and one in the sheriff.” I saw the sheriff give a slight nod to his brother, which I fervently hoped was confirmation of Art’s empty-chamber theory. “Put it down, Deputy, and step over here with your hands out in front of you.”

  “Go on, Orbin, do what he says,” sighed Kitchings.

  Orbin complied.

  Kitchings spoke, and he sounded like a different man — a much less certain and much more weary man — than the one who had tried to turn a rifle on me moments before. “I don’t know what’s going on here, Doc. You’re right, she was my cousin. Leena Bonds — Evelina, actually — was her name. She lived with our family for a few years after her folks died, and then she left town. At least, that’s what we’d always thought, right up until now. Leena dated Jim O’Conner. Hell, I think she was even engaged to him. In my book — in anybody’s book — that makes him the prime suspect.”

  “Not if he was in Vietnam when she was strangled,” I said.

  “Do you know when she was strangled?”

  “Not precisely. But the dog tag suggests it was sometime after he left for Vietnam.”

  “So maybe he did it once he got home. Any proof it didn’t happen then?”

  “Not that I know of. But I suspect a DNA test will show it wasn’t his baby she was carrying.”

  The revelation burst like a bombshell in the office. I hadn’t intended to broach the subject of Leena’s pregnancy quite that way, but then again, I hadn’t expected to find myself in a Mexican standoff with two law enforcement officers, either.

  Tom Kitchings sagged backward against a filing cabinet, looking as if he’d been struck. “She was pregnant?”

  “Yes. Four and a half months, best I can tell from the fetal skeleton.”

  The sheriff remained thunderstruck. His brother spoke up. “Hell, there’s your motive right there, gents. G.I. Jim comes home, finds out his sweetie’s been takin’ her love to town — got knocked up in the process — and he goes apeshit. Might have a hard time making murder one stick, but I guaran-damn-tee you we got enough right now to make a strong case for murder two.”

  “I don’t think he did it,” I said.

  The sheriff hauled himself upright from the filing cabinet, then leaned toward me, both palms flat on his desk. “Nothin’ personal, Doc, but I don’t give a rat’s ass what you think. You may be a fine bone detective, but you’re an outsider here. You don’t know the first thing about Cooke County or Jim O’Conner and what he might or might not be capable of. I’ll be gettin’ a warrant for his arrest. I’ll be gettin’ a subpoena for those bones. And I’ll be takin’ it real personal if I catch you messin’ around in this case any further.”

  I decided this might be a good time to make our exit. I looked at Art, and he seemed to agree, as he cocked his head toward the door. “Sheriff,” I said, backing out of the office, “I’ll be on the lookout for that subpoena. Orbin, good to meet you. Y’all have a nice day.”

  “Remember,” said Art, “we’ll have one eye on the rearview mirror and one hand on the radio.”

  As we dashed out the front door of the courthouse, Art said, “Go get the truck and swing around back and pick me up.” I started to ask him why, but he cut me off. “Just do it. I’ll tell you later.”

  The tires squealed as I backed out of my parking space. They squealed again when I slammed the gearshift into forward, and again when I slung the truck around the corner to the rear parking lot. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the two old-timers h
ad ceased whittling and were staring at me, slack-jawed and mostly toothless.

  As I pulled into the lot, I saw Art at the door of the helicopter. As I skidded to a stop beside him, he pocketed a small bottle, then leapt into the truck. “What were you doing?”

  “Oh, nothing,” he said. “Just buying us a little time.” He pulled the bottle back out of his pocket, and I recognized its shape: superglue.

  “You superglued their door locks?” He grinned proudly. “The cars? The helicopter?” He nodded happily. “They are gonna be furious.”

  “More furious than when they tried to shoot us?” He had a point there.

  Despite Art’s stratagem, I wasted no time getting out of town. Careening along the river road, I glanced in the mirror as often as I could without running off the embankment or making myself carsick. “Better get that radio out, just in case,” I told Art.

  “What radio?”

  “The radio you’re going to call for help on.” I looked at him; he shook his head and held out his empty hands, palms up. “So what was that big line you were feeding them about radioing the FBI and the TBI if they came after us?”

  “That, my friend, is called a bluff. A successful bluff, to be precise.” I was not nearly as pleased with Art’s gamesmanship as he was. “Hey, what was I supposed to say—‘Oh, please don’t come after us, because if you do, we’re screwed’? I’m glad you weren’t doing the talking at that moment.” Chalk up another point for Art.

  We rode in nervous silence awhile, until we turned onto I-40 and the mileposts began flashing past at a hundred miles an hour. For once in my life, I was hoping I’d get pulled over by a state trooper. “Art, I’m in unknown territory here,” I said. “I’ve never had a case where I couldn’t tell the good guys from the bad guys.”

  He nodded. “I remember the first time that happened to me. I was still pretty new in homicide when this cocaine dealer gets shot in the projects in East Knoxville. Shot by a rival dealer, the vice cops tell me. But little things about it start to bother me. No other dealer moves in on the territory. The missing coke — supposedly some hot new stuff — never hits the streets in Knoxville. Instead, pretty soon it starts showing up in Memphis. Turns out one of the vice cops ambushed him, sold the cocaine to a dealer he knew in Memphis. Scary when you realize you can’t always trust the guys on your own team.”

  Scary indeed. “So what should I do?”

  “Depends. What do you want to happen?”

  “I want to find out who killed that girl. I want to do right by her, if it’s possible.”

  He nodded. “Wouldn’t have expected anything less. So just do what you always do: speak for the victim, tell the truth, and use your brain. Oh, yeah — watch your back from now on, too.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got for me, Supercop?”

  “Hey, it’s all I’ve got for me, too. Seems to be working okay. So far.”

  “Such a comfort. No wonder I wanted you with me.”

  “Damn right. But wait, there’s more. I’m not just a comfort and a lifesaver; I’m also a primo evidence gatherer.” Art reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a folded handkerchief, which he handed to me.

  “This hanky is primo evidence?”

  “Shit, no, Sherlock. Look inside.”

  I unfolded it. Tucked in the folds was a hank of human hair.

  “Whose is it?”

  “Fresh from the scalp of Sheriff Thomas Kitchings. Remember when I saved your skin back there? I had a pretty good grip on his curly locks while I was holding my gun to his head. Seemed like long as I was there, might as well bring a few strands home as a souvenir. You still got that former student working up at the Pentagon’s forensic lab?”

  “Bob Gonzales? Yeah, but why?”

  “Might be interesting to see if there’s any links with your cavewoman or the baby.”

  “I say again, why? The sheriff just admitted he’s her cousin. And you already convinced me that he was too young to have fathered the baby.”

  “Bill, this is Cooke County. Never say never. You never know what might turn up.”

  “Whatever you say. You’re the primo criminalist. Thanks, by the way, for saving my skin back there.”

  “Anytime. Except probably not for the next day or two. I’m still working that child abduction.”

  “Any luck?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing. We’re three weeks out without a trace, and we’ve been tailing the bastard for two-point-nine. Unless we’ve badly misjudged this slimebag, the kid’s been dead since the night he nabbed her. We’ve got the cadaver dogs searching for a body.”

  I could think of nothing heartening to say.

  The sky had clouded as the day wore on, but suddenly — just as we crossed the big bridge over the French Broad River — spokes of sunlight shot from behind a tower of cumulus. Against a purplish-black storm front to the west, the nearer clouds and the forested river banks glowed with such luminescence my heart tightened in my chest. “God’s light,” my mother had always called such displays.

  I wasn’t at all sure I believed in God anymore. But I believed this: despite its pockets of darkness, the world can be a beautiful place.

  CHAPTER 14

  I’d been avoiding the calendar for weeks, but I couldn’t suppress the memory of the day that had finally crept up on me: September 27, the two-year anniversary of the day Kathleen had died. I’d ushered in the day promptly at midnight, during the first of many hours of fitful tossing. By daybreak I was nursing a screaming headache, and my hand shook as I poured my coffee. When the telephone shattered the silence of the kitchen, I jumped so much I sloshed out half the cup.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Dad, it’s Jeff.”

  Jeff lived fifteen miles and a world away from the tree-lined sanctuary of Sequoyah Hills. He and his wife had just bought a sprawling new house in Farragut, a booming suburb far to the west on Kingston Pike. Having an anthropologist and a social scientist as parents had given him enough ivory tower experiences to last a lifetime, I suppose, for Jeff had majored in accounting at UT, quickly earned his CPA certification, and built a lucrative practice in less than a decade. His two boys, ages five and seven, were already enrolled in a soccer league, and Jeff’s wife, Jenny, meshed well with the other affluent soccer moms in Farragut. At thirty-two, my son was successful and happy. And I could hardly bear talking with him.

  “Hi, Jeff. I need to keep it short — I’m about to be late for class.”

  “It’s Saturday, Dad. Is UT scheduling classes on Saturday now?”

  “I didn’t mean class. I meant an exhumation. I have to go exhume a body.”

  “You okay? You sound…strange.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Listen, I just wanted to let you know I’m thinking about you today.” I wished he hadn’t said that. “How you feeling — really? Don’t just say ‘fine,’ because you don’t sound so hot.”

  “Gee, why could that be? Oh, now I remember — my wife died on this day a couple years ago.”

  There was a momentary silence on the other end of the line. “I know, Dad. So did my mom.”

  “Well, you seem to have had an easier time getting over it.” My tone was sharper than I meant it to be.

  “What is that supposed to mean? Is that some kind of accusation?”

  “No. Just an observation. You don’t seem to be especially grief-stricken.”

  I heard a deep intake of breath, then a long, forced exhalation. “You are way over the line here. I loved Mom. A lot. And when she died, it hurt like hell; sometimes it still does. But you know what, Dad? I cried a lot, and then I faced the fact that she had died, and I decided to carry on with my life. You, on the other hand, seem determined to make some sort of crusade out of wallowing in your grief — you carry it like a cross, you wear it like a crown of thorns, some self-inflicted stigmata. And anybody who doesn’t get down there and wallow with you, you think their grief just isn’t quite up to the mark, s
o maybe their love for her didn’t measure up, either. And when you do that, Dad, you alienate yourself from the people who love you and wish you well and want you to be happy again.”

  “I’ll be happy again when the time comes.”

  “No, you won’t. Because you resist it. It’s like some perverse challenge to you — seeing how long you can milk your misery and loneliness.”

  “And this conversation’s supposed to be cheering me up?”

  “I didn’t start this; you did. Come on, Dad, admit it — you’re hiding from life. You bury yourself in your work, and you immerse yourself in your grief. And those two things are all you do anymore.”

  “My work is very demanding.”

  “So demanding you don’t have time to call or see your son and your grandkids? So demanding you don’t have time to go out to dinner? When’s the last time you had a sit-down dinner with a woman? Or with a man? With me, for that matter?”

  “It’s hard to see you. It hurts.”

  “And why is that, Dad?”

  If I were telling the truth, I would have said to my son, “Because I blame us both for her death. I blame myself and I blame you, whose birth was so hard on her reproductive system.” But I was not telling the truth — I could not tell him that truth — so what I said was, “You remind me too much of her.”

  “Why can’t you take some comfort in that — in the fact that a part of her lives on in me?” I didn’t even attempt an answer. “Hell, if you still can’t handle an evening with me, at least see somebody. Preferably a therapist, but anybody would be better than nobody. I bet you haven’t had a social engagement since the funeral.”

  It was true, I hadn’t, but I didn’t want my son reminding me of it.

  “Look, Jeff, I appreciate your concern for my social life, but I’m fine. I’m a grown-up, and I can manage that quite well on my own.” It was a transparent lie, so I blustered as I served it up.